


Mesh-Up

by s0mmerspr0ssen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-22 08:09:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0mmerspr0ssen/pseuds/s0mmerspr0ssen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John runs a knitwear shop. Sherlock needs a present for Mummy. It's love on first sight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This thing has never seen a beta and I am not a native speaker of English. Please excuse any mistakes!

It was one of those grey and very rainy days that kept people from roaming the streets for window shopping and left small shops in the side streets mostly empty.

Dr John Watson, neatly folding several small jumpers that had been picked up and carelessly dropped again by curious children the day before, sighed at the rain drops that made their way down the display window.

It was never a good time for knitwear shops. These days, with department store chains offering cheap and nice-looking clothing en masse, nobody thought of buying handmade jumpers and cardigans or actually knitting some themselves.

The shop had always been one of the most precious things in the life of John's mother. Knitting had been her passion ever since her own mother had taught her how to hold a pair of knitting needles. John vividly remembered her affectionate smile whenever a customer would enter and the way she would talk with her skilful hands when explaining the differences in wearing comfort and colour choices.

When Joyce Watson passed away shortly after John's return from Afghanistan, her son simply hadn't had the heart to close the shop and go find a job as a doctor. Too many memories were associated with it.

The shop didn't make much money, hardly enough to pay the bills. It had been easier with John's father around who had earned enough in his life to balance any negatives in the shop's tally and had always supported his wife's little dream. But now that both his parents had passed away, John was shouldering the financial responsibility all on his own. His sister Harriet, recently divorced and a heavy drinker, naturally didn't offer any support, either. In the end, there was only so much an army pension could buy and keeping a small knitwear shop going wasn't really one of them.

The familiar ring of the bell above the door cut through John's rather gloomy thoughts.

"I'll be right with you," he called from behind the shelve he was currently occupied with and quickly arranged the last piece of clothing.

Reaching for his cane, John limped around the display to greet his customer.

It was a new face. John had never seen the man in his life. He was tall and his lean frame only enhanced that impression. A dark blue scarf - expensive but not handmade John's well-trained eye noticed - was placed around his neck in a careless knot and his long, elegant coat was covered in delicate raindrops. The customer definitely had money but didn't seem the type for cableknit jumpers and crochet mittens.

 _Probably looking for a present then_ , John thought and smiled up at the man.

"How can I help you, sir?" he enquired and pale eyes immediately focused on John.

The man's gaze all but roamed over John's body, seemingly taking in every small detail. For a moment, John felt exposed and vulnerable as if all of his secrets had been put on display and involuntarily, his grip tightened around the handle of his cane. The smallest of smirks appeared on the other man's lips.

"My mother," he eventually said, voice deep and a tad mysterious, "is a woman of exquisite taste. She very much enjoys a well-made piece of clothing."

John cleared his throat and for some reason he could not fathom had to swallow several times before he was able to form a somewhat coherent reply.

"I see," he answered, silently berating himself for suddenly feeling inapt. "A birthday present, I assume?"

The customer inclined his head. The smirk was still present and could mean anything. For all John knew, the man might be thinking _Indeed, let's find a nice, fluffy jumper for my mother._ or rather _You are the densest person on the entire planet.  
_  
Forcing himself not to look away, John took a deep breath and finally switched into shopkeeper mode.

"What exactly are you looking for? We just got a delivery of very light jumpers. I find them to be rather elegant."

The man followed John into the back of the shop and quietly put up with John's advice on mesh sizes and stretchability of yarn. John got the distinct feeling that he was only half-listening to John's monologue and not very interested, even though the customer's eyes never left John's perimeter.

"... which could be an advantage if your mother likes to wear different layers at once." Suddenly feeling unnerved with the scrutinizing, never-faltering look he was receiving and the on-going silence, John's patience ran out. "What?"

"You are not the murderer," the man told him.

John simply stared at him. "I- excuse me?"

"You recently returned from combat, a soldier. Army doctor, even, I would say. Afghanistan or Iraq, I am not quite sure and it hardly matters. Your limp is psychosomatic but you don't know that which immediately disqualifies you for having committed the murder. You couldn't have climbed up and down the fire escape and certainly wouldn't have all but butchered the victim. As a doctor, you would have killed her quickly and efficiently."

John knew he had to look absolutely foolish with his mouth agape like a fish.

"Wha- I don't understand."

The man sighed, as if explaining himself was the biggest of chores.

"I am investigating the murder of Jennifer Foster. The police thought you a likely suspect and asked me for advice. However, you didn't do it."

John knew of Mrs. Foster's death, of course. She had been a sweet old lady, a regular costumer and always perfectly friendly. The police had been in to interrogate him as Mrs. Foster's apartment was on the opposite side of the road but John never would have thought that he of all people had been a suspect.

"Well, thanks for establishing that," he finally managed to reply. "I take it this means that you do in fact _not_ require a present for your mother?"

"Not at all. Her birthday is next week and I think she would love that cream-coloured cardigan you were showing me earlier," the man stated, looking perfectly serious and proving John's earlier assumption that he hadn't been listening wrong.

John couldn't stop a small chuckle from escaping.

"You came in here to buy a birthday present for your mother - from a murderer?"

"Not the murderer after all. But yes - even if you had been the one to kill her it wouldn't have made a difference to your expertise in knitwear, would it?"

John shook his head, laughing quietly. He drove a trembling hand trough his hair, then quickly looked up as something occurred to him.

"How did you know about Afghanistan, though? Did the police tell you that?"

The smirk widened into a brief smile.

"No. They only told me that they needed my opinion. The way you hold yourself, your haircut, the tan lines - it practically screams of your former occupation. I simply observed and deduced."

John couldn't stop the feeling of growing admiration bubbling up in his chest.

"That's brilliant," he said in all honesty.

Finally, the man had the decency to look a bit surprised rather than smug.

"You think so?" he enquired with a slight rise of his elegant eyebrows.

"Of course," John answered and finally thought of picking up the chosen cardigan from a shelf near-by. "Quite brilliant."

He limped back to the front of the shop, only remembering his customer's statement when he was already leaning against the counter for support, typing numbers into the cash register.

"My limp is psychosomatic?" he repeated and looked up at the other man.

"Definitely. That doesn't mean the pain isn't real, of course. I am sure you can talk it over with your therapist."

John didn't even ask how his customer knew about his therapy. It didn't matter, not really. He stated the price before crouching down behind the counter to find a bag for the purchase.

"Thank you," the man said as he picked up the present.

John couldn't help but give him a warm and thankful smile in response.

"No, _I_ should be thanking _you_ for proving my innocence. May I ask - what's your name?"

The man smirked, dark curls bouncing a bit when he cocked his head to the side.

"Sherlock Holmes - consulting detective."  



	2. Chapter 2

Jennifer Foster's murder had been solved quickly once Sherlock had ruled out DI Lestrade's list of suspects and had finally been allowed to have a look at the actual crime scene.

Of course, it had been the pizza delivery man. Dealing drugs underhand had actually been quite a smart idea - of course that also meant that one had to keep track of those pizza boxes that had the double bottom and were meant for the drug users. The murder hadn't been planned but apparently necessary as Mrs. Foster had tried to phone the police after waking up and seeing a man in her kitchen going trough the rubbish bin in search of a small fortune.

Cases really could be quite boring at times.

Not at all boring but really rather interesting had been one of the more unlikely suspects - Dr. John H. Watson. Sherlock didn't quite understand why but there was something about the man that wouldn't let Sherlock forget about him.

He really hadn't been that special at first sight: hand-knitted jumper (of course), boringly ash blonde hair and a very expressive, average face. To be honest, his appearance had been bland.

However, Sherlock had taken one look at the trembling in John Watson's hand to realize that the man wasn't made for running a knitwear shop.

It wasn't that the man hadn't known what he was talking about. John Watson did enjoy giving advice on woollen jumpers. Deep down though, the man was a solider, a doctor and a thrill-seeker. He was craving the danger, the rush of adrenaline in his body, the intoxication of running, chasing, ducking and the excitement of fighting for a person's life.

The knitwear shop was possibly the most unfitting place for a man like him.

Sentimental value. It had to be.

Sherlock had done his research and found out that the shop had belonged to Joyce Watson, the man's deceased mother. John Watson was doing this to preserve his mother's memory. What an utter waste of potential. He could do much better.

To his own surprise, Sherlock had found that he rather liked the man. He couldn't really explain it - John Watson was still very average, quite ordinary, plebeian even. But the way he had smiled and complimented Sherlock's deductions in all honesty had touched something inside of Sherlock.

Nobody had ever told him that what he was doing was _brilliant._ Sherlock certainly knew that it was extraordinary but most people felt either intimidated or annoyed. Not John Watson, though. He had been genuinely impressed which truly had surprised Sherlock.

Sherlock was hardly ever surprised.

"What are you mulling over now, Sherlock? Another petty murder, hm?"

Sherlock simply glared at his brother from across the table. They were at Mummy's mansion in the outskirts of London for her annual birthday tea party. She had invited most of her friends and a handful of relatives and of course seated Mycroft at the same table as Sherlock. Mummy knew about the on-going rivalry between her sons and constantly tried to smoothen things out. Not wanting to upset her, Sherlock had forced a fake-smile on his face and settled down next to him and his BlackBerry-obsessed assistant.

"In fact, no," he snapped and took a sip of tea to hide his expression from Mummy who was constantly throwing half-worried looks at their table in between chatting with her acquaintances.

Mycroft smiled his annoying little smile and delicately bit into a tiny tea biscuit.

"No?" he enquired after finishing it and only the way his fingers twitched ever so slightly toward the pastry tray spoke of his desire to eat more and possibly stuff himself until his trouser button would snap.

Sherlock smiled a nasty smile and even though he had never had a sweet tooth, he picked up one of the largest biscuits and ate it with exaggerated pleasure. The way too sugary taste was worth the tightening of Mycroft's lips and the narrowing eyes. Oh, he had always been so very jealous of Sherlock's fast metabolism!

 _Bye-bye new diet_ , Sherlock thought. He gave it another two days at the most.

"Your present for Mummy was quite thoughtful," Mycroft said and his voice was all calculated carelessness. "I must admit that you always had superb taste in clothing."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in suspicion but kept quiet, not wanting to give his brother any ammunition. Mycroft, much like Sherlock, didn't do idle small talk. His every sentence was thought-out and aimed at creating a certain effect. Staying silent usually was the best way to go until one had figured out Mycroft's latest scheme.

"But was it really merely about Mummy or rather about the shopkeeper, Dr. John Watson." It wasn't a question.

Sherlock nearly broke off the handle of Mummy's beloved Meissen tea cup as his hand tightened in irritation. That controlling little _sod_! Sherlock let out an angry huff and forcefully placed his tea back onto the table.

Mycroft's smile turned triumphant.

"Ah. So I _was_ right. You're interested in this man. It is quite astonishing. What exactly do you see in him? He's broken, Sherlock, trembling and limping through life."

"That is none of your business," Sherlock hissed.

"You hardly know him," Mycroft continued with raised eyebrows. "One conversation and you're completely smitten."

"I'm _not_ smitten. I went into that shop because he was a suspect as you know perfectly well, Mycroft." With a careful glance towards Mummy, Sherlock leaned forward to be closer to his brother. "Do refrain from poking your interfering nose into my life. Can't you go and announce some embargo to amuse yourself?"

"Don't be childish," Mycroft reprimanded him. "I only want what's best for you. Surely, there is nothing wrong with that?"

Sherlock kept himself from grinding his teeth. "Don't you dare turn this into one of your games."

"Oh, I'd never," Mycroft stated innocently just as his assistant's phone started to ring in a high and obnoxious tingle. "Ah. Well, that means we have to be off. Excuse us, Sherlock, and enjoy your tea."

With a kiss for Mummy's cheek and a diplomatic smile for the other guests, Mycroft disappeared with his black car and left a highly annoyed Sherlock behind.

How he hated that meddling fool of a brother! John Watson was none of his business. And most certainly, Sherlock was _not_ smitten.

He just wasn't.


	3. Chapter 3

John was smitten.

Completely and utterly so.

The day after his strange encounter with one Sherlock Holmes, John had still been in denial. He had told himself that constantly thinking about the detective was perfectly normal after what had happened, that it wasn't the least bit strange to look out of the window all the time hoping to see the man return to buy another cardigan.

 _Ridiculous!_ , he had thought, _Of course it is ridiculous! His mother won't need another present until next year or possibly Christmas, if I am lucky and really, why would he return to this shop of all places when he has the whole of London and-_

Realizing he was rambling, John had forced himself to stop and turned to tedious but important tasks that would need all of his attention, like figuring out how to pay for the renovation of the shop, especially the plasterwork.

On the second day, a niggling feeling had settled into his stomach that the doctor in him would have diagnosed as simple abdominal flu had it come with the usual repercussions or at least a head-ache. As it hadn't, John had turned to drinking endless cups of tea and re-folding jumpers to distract himself and to keep his fumbling fingers occupied.

By the end of the week, John had finally accepted that one, he had a horrible crush on the consulting detective and two, he wasn't likely to see the man again anytime soon. John tried to avoid thinking about his second conclusion and much rather dwelled on other, more enjoyable thoughts.

Like those legs, those incredible long legs that had looked wonderful in the black, perfectly tailored dress trousers. And those eyes, colour somewhere in between grey and blue, so intense and seemingly taking in every detail. The hands, as well, with long elegant fingers wrapping around the pound notes John had handed him as change.

 _Gorgeous_ , that was the only fitting word John could come up with. Sherlock Holmes had been a _gorgeous_ sight.

John felt like a hormone-ridden teenager pining for a teacher or someone equally unapproachable. Not knowing whether he would see the man again was one thing but John also knew that meeting him once more would not result in any of the childish fantasies he had been nursing for the past days. After all, why would a handsome man like Sherlock be interested in a limping ex-soldier running a knitwear shop?

When a new week started with a cloudy sky and no food budget money left for the last days of the month, John's hope had all but died and made space for resignation. Painful resignation.

Rummaging through the cupboards of his tiny kitchen, all that John could find was a rather dodgy tin of peas and a small rest of his precious tea. John was not one to waste his small income but even with careful planning he oftentimes had to tighten his belt at the end of the month. Not paying the various bills for the shop simply wasn't an option to him. He rather saved on himself than to risk his mother's legacy.

With a big sigh, John decided to save the peas for lunch, possibly even for dinner and limped to the door leading into the shop.

Not being able to afford a separate flat, John had moved into the small set of spare rooms in the back of the shop. He didn't own much, didn't need much space. He also saved money this way. John knew he wouldn't be able to hold the shop living somewhere else.

He limped into the shop front, gaze automatically moving up to the wall clock. He was ten minutes early but he might as well open the shop now. It wouldn't really make a difference.  
To his surprise, he could see two people waiting outside the shop through the window. For a moment, John halted his movements and simply stared. Not once in his time running the shop had there been people _waiting outside_. He blinked once, twice, then forced himself to turn the key and let them in.

They were indeed customers and both spent a nice amount of money on several pieces of clothing. John could hardly believe his luck and quietly thanked whatever deity had had mercy on him.

A fluke. It had to be a lucky coincidence.

Ten customers more and John got the distinct feeling that this was not. In between giving advice and helping people choose, John hardly found the time to wonder what the meaning of this was. Had his shop been mentioned somewhere, maybe a positive reference in a newspaper or on the internet? Had some fancy fashion designer declared handmade jumpers the latest trend? What was going on?

"Thanks so much for your purchase," John said to a rather pretty young woman. "If I may ask - how did you find out about this shop?"

She gave him a vague smile.

"A friend recommended it."

With that, she and her purple v-neck jumper were gone and John's attention was demanded by an older gentleman looking for slipovers.

Shortly before closing time, the rush quieted down and John leaned back against the counter, closing his eyes and drawing in a few deep breaths. He hadn't known a full shop could be this _exhausting_. It had been fun, though. A lot of fun.

"Having a breather?"

John jumped a bit, at once recognizing the deep, rich voice. His eyes snapped open immediately.

"Mr Holmes!" he exclaimed, staring up at the man in front of him in surprise.

He looked as gorgeous as last week, coat and scarf seemingly his constant companions. The smallest of smiles played about his lips and his eyes were as scrutinizing as ever, gaze briefly wandering over John and taking in his expression, his clothing, his cane.

"Sherlock," he eventually offered and John nodded, desperately trying to slow down his heartbeat that had quickened the moment he had set his eyes on the other man. Quite pathetic, really.

"Sherlock," he repeated and finally managed to smile back. "How are you?"

"Good," was the short answer and Sherlock's eyes moved away, taking in the state of the shop. "You?"

John watched Sherlock's lips tighten, eyebrows drawing together ever so slightly. He suddenly seemed annoyed for a reason John could not fathom. The shop did look messy but John honestly couldn't care less. He had made more money today than in a whole month - maybe even two. He could deal with crinkled clothes and a few overstretched meshes after such a successful day.

"Tired," he replied in all honesty. "Sorry, are you all right?"

Finally, Sherlock looked back at him. The small smile had vanished, annoyance definitely evident in his features.

"Of course. I was just wondering - how was business today?"

"It was good. Very good. I must admit I was surprised."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed momentarily before he smoothed his features. His right hand disappeared momentarily in his coat pocket until he withdrew a sleek mobile phone. His fingers immediately started all but flying over the buttons. Being a hopeless case in most technical things himself, John eyed Sherlock's ease and efficiency with a small bit of envy.

"You haven't eaten today," the man spoke without looking up from his phone.

John was momentarily taken aback before remembering that special talent Sherlock had shown off last time. He was a detective, a very observant one. John shifted a bit, still leaning against the counter for support.

"I haven't," he agreed, admiration in his voice. "How _exactly_ did you know that?"

A small but bright smile lightened up Sherlock's face. His eyes flickered up briefly.

"Hypoglycemia - trembling fingers, pale cheeks, thin film of sweat on your forehead. Insufficient nutrition for at least three days, no food at all today. You'd know, of course, _Dr._ Watson."

He had finally finished his text message and put away his mobile phone. His attention focused solely on John and his smile had actually widened a bit. John couldn't help but notice how much more handsome he looked.

"Very true," he laughed and grabbed his cane tightly, straightening up himself. "So - did you need anything? Another cardigan, perhaps?"

"My mother very much enjoyed her present and doesn't require another."

John blinked at Sherlock, unsure what to reply to that. Why had Sherlock returned if not to purchase something or exchange the gift?

"I'm glad," he stated, shifting his weight to relieve the pressure on his bad leg.

 _Psychosomatic_ had been Sherlock's diagnosis and John's therapist had agreed. Knowing about it, however, hadn't helped in the slightest. John was still feeling the pain as if he was injured.

For a few awkward moments, there was silence between them. Finally, Sherlock cleared his throat and for the first time in the short period John had known him, he looked slightly uncomfortable, maybe even nervous.

"Would you join me for dinner, John?"

John's suddenly buckling knees very nearly ceased supporting him right then. Gripping the edge of the counter behind him, he couldn't keep himself from gaping at the other man.

"I- what?"

"Dinner," Sherlock repeated. The faintest of blushes appeared around his prominent cheekbones. John thought he had never seen anything more beautiful. "If you'd like to. I know several nice restaurants, whatever your preference might be. Though I am thinking Italian, yes?"

Finally regaining control over his facial expression ( _You're a soldier, John, pull yourself together. You're embarrassing yourself._ ), John could form a coherent reply.

"Yes. Yes, I'd love to." He hesitated but decided there was no other way to ask this than the direct approach. "Is this, I mean... Is this a _date_?"

Sherlock looked at him searchingly, probably taking in John's face.

"It could be," he answered but sounded very confident about it. "If you don't mind."

John smiled very brightly, unable to believe his luck. He was starting to feel very light-headed, partly because his blood sugar was way too low, but also because after one week of pining, the impossible and unlikely scenario of a _date_ with Sherlock Holmes was coming true.

"No, I don't mind," he assured him. "Let me close the shop and I'll get my coat."


	4. Chapter 4

"Thank you, Angelo."

Sherlock sent the restaurant owner a brief smile when the man set down a candle in between John and Sherlock himself with a knowing wink and a comment on how it was more _romantic_.

They had chosen one of the more private tables in the back of the restaurant where the conversations of the other patrons were subdued and less distracting. John was looking through the menu at the moment, forehead wrinkling ever so sightly while reading through the many options.

"Anything you can recommend? What are you taking?" he asked Sherlock after a few minutes of comfortable silence.

"Nothing," Sherlock replied and was immediately presented with a surprised look.

"Nothing?" John repeated. "Why? Something I should know about? Rats in the kitchen? New cases of mad-cow disease?"

Sherlock couldn't stop the smile forming on his face. He didn't usually smile so much but John seemed to have the ability to amuse him with the simplest things.

"No, nothing of the sort. Angelo's cooking is excellent and contaminant-free, I assure you." He leaned back a bit, briefly observing how the flickering of the candle light brought out different angles of John's face before continuing: "I simply don't eat a lot. It slows me down and makes me feel sluggish."

Surprise was evident on John's features but luckily, there was nothing judgmental about the look he was giving Sherlock. If anything, he seemed amused rather than taken aback by Sherlock's quirk. It sent a pleasant, warm tingle down Sherlock's spine he couldn't quite really explain. It simply felt nice not to be rejected for his odd behaviour.

"When was the last time _you_ have eaten?" John carefully enquired, alluding to his own lack of proper nourishment for the past few days.

Sherlock didn't have to give it much thought. "Friday, at my mother's birthday. It was a tea party."

"That's _four days_ , Sherlock," John pointed out, shaking his head. "Don't you think it's time for some fuel? To keep you going?"

John wasn't the first one to tell Sherlock that he should eat more but from John, it didn't sound the least bit pushy - how could it, when the man had neglected himself for the past few days himself? Granted, for John, it had been an involuntary fast. At first, Sherlock had thought the man had simply forgotten about it but the way John had quickly changed the topic when Sherlock had commented on his symptoms had spoken volumes: John Watson simply didn't have enough money for food at the moment. It truly had been the perfect opportunity to get to know the man, invite him to dinner and thus kill two birds with one stone.

Sherlock had been on very few dates in his life and avoided these excuses for hours of small-talk as much as possible unless he had to seduce a witness for a case or something along those lines. John though - well, Sherlock had already come to terms with the fact that John was different from anyone else he had ever met. John was _special_.

"All right," he heard himself agree. "Maybe some pasta."

The pleased smile on John's face was worth the feeling of fullness Sherlock would have to deal with tonight. He returned the smile before looking down to open and scan the menu. He picked the _Spaghetti alla Napoleana_ and a glass of red wine. It _was_ a special occasion after all and Sherlock cherished the fond twinkle in John's eyes when Angelo jotted down their orders.

"So," John picked up their conversation. "Consulting detective. That doesn't sound like your usual private investigator."

"It isn't," Sherlock agreed, leaning forward to rest his head on interlaced fingers. "The police consult me when they are stuck with their cases - which happens all the time. To be frank: they'd be lost without my input."

"Really?" John asked though still, he seemed more amused than anything. "Very important work, then. What happened to poor Mrs. Foster if I may ask? If you can tell me, that is."

"Scotland Yard has long given up on trying to make me sign any arrangement of confidentiality," Sherlock informed him and started to outline the case and his deductions for John, only briefly pausing when their drinks arrived.

John seemed genuinely interested in what Sherlock was telling him, eyes wide and excited as he easily followed Sherlock's train of thoughts, only occasionally interrupting with questions that, surprisingly, weren't the least bit annoying. It was obvious John wasn't anywhere near smart or observing enough to deduce a crime like Sherlock himself but unlike other people, he didn't seem annoyed with Sherlock's ability to outshine him.

"Brilliant!" John told him, with no less enthusiasm than he had displayed during their first meeting at the knitwear shop.

At once, Sherlock started telling him about his other cases, way more interesting ones than Mrs. Foster's murder, and thoroughly enjoyed the way John was practically hanging on his lips, seemingly drinking in every word. The trembling in John's hand, Sherlock casually noticed, had reduced to an occasional twitch somewhere through the third case.

"And you got all that from the colour of his _socks_ and the fact he once studied French at school?" John exclaimed in disbelief, a forkful of lasagna half-way to his mouth. It was a strangely endearing sight and Sherlock had a hard time focusing on John's statement instead of the lips, tinged red by tomato sauce.

He nodded in response, taking another sip of wine.

"That's amazing," John praised him and Sherlock felt a small tingle of heat rise in his cheeks. He blamed it on the alcohol, conveniently forgetting that John had already succeeded in making him blush last week.

 _He's impressed_ , Sherlock thought, observing John's admiring gaze, the way he was leaning forward as if to not miss a word of what was being said, _He's impressed and I am very much enjoying it._ Somehow, Sherlock couldn't find it in himself to be annoyed at this unusual reaction of this, at all the emotions and feelings that were involved in this. For once, he allowed himself to simply enjoy himself, enjoy the company of another human being that didn't seem to hate him on first sight and was apparently interested in more than his looks.

Sherlock wasn't delusional. He knew that he was handsome in a lean, quirky kind of way and that both men and women appreciated his even skin, the dark hair and his deep voice. In his late teens and early twenties, Sherlock had freely used his looks to get what he wanted when he had wanted it. In the last few years, however, Sherlock had lost interest in the mess that was relationships and intercourse. He preferred professional relationships that were of use for his work.

Why now, then? Why was he reacting this way to John?

They finished their dinner way too early for Sherlock's taste who could have stayed for hours, simply talking to John. John, who actually _listened_ , who seemed to care about what Sherlock had to say. John however and quite unlike Sherlock, had a shop to attend to which meant getting up early and not being able to stay up late or for days on end and then sleep whenever he felt like it.

When they stepped out into a cold night, John yawned, politely covering his mouth with his free hand, the other grabbing that needless cane of his. He was tired. It reminded Sherlock that John had had a particularly (and unexpectedly) busy day. Sherlock hand snapped up, retrieving his mobile phone from his coat pocket which he had put on silent mode the minute John had agreed to go to dinner with him, had even switched off the vibration alerts.

Mycroft's reply was blinking at him on the screen, being just as annoying as the person itself.

**` From:` ** ` Mycroft Holmes`   


`I don't know what you're talking about,`  
`my dear brother.`  
`It seems Dr. Watson's shop has merely`  
`been recommended to a few people by`  
`a pleased customer.`  
`It did put him into a good mood, though,`  
`didn't it?  
` `-MH`

  
Another text message had been sent shortly afterwards:

  
` **From:** Mycroft Holmes  
`

` You've eaten, I'm quite pleased to see.`  
`Dr. Watson seems to have a very`  
`positive influence on you so far.`  
`Do try and avoid scaring him off,`  
`all right?  
` `-MH`

  
Scowling at the mobile phone, Sherlock suppressed the urge to throw it onto the street to let one of the many cars run it over. Instead, he switched the sound alerts back on and put it in his trouser pocket, knowing he'd need the numbers and information saved on the device.

"Everything all right?" John spoke up next to him, a faint note of concern in his voice. He had probably noticed Sherlock's strained expression.

"Yes, yes, don't worry about it. My brother has merely decided to be an annoying prat, just like always."

John smiled, if a bit wistfully.

"I have a sibling as well, my sister Harry but we-" He stopped and cleared his throat a bit, clearly uncomfortable about the topic. "We don't get on very well."

"I feel your pain," Sherlock muttered gloomily and John laughed.

It was a bit funny-sounding, slightly high-pitched and interrupted by the occasional awkward hiccup but Sherlock didn't mind. He loved the sound of it. He wanted to hear it over and over again. The silent admission made Sherlock's chest expand with feelings, warm feelings he usually didn't allow himself to feel.

"Let me walk you home, yes?" Sherlock said and like a gentleman, offered his arm to John.

For a few moments, John simply stared at him as if he had never seen Sherlock before. Then he smiled, grinned really, and linked his arm with Sherlock's, successfully entwining them. His cheeks were flushed, probably partly with embarrassment, but he did lean a bit into Sherlock's side as they started walking down the street, John being supported by Sherlock instead of that odious cane of his. Sherlock could have called for a taxi of course, but for some reason, half an hour of walking didn't seem all that far with John by his side.

They stayed quiet for the most part, except for the occasional comment on how pretty London could be at night or how that man over there had obviously just stolen a wallet, given the state of his hair and jacket.

Eventually, though, they did arrive at John's shop. The window was illuminated by a few light bulbs, showing off the display of jumpers and other knitwear even in the darkness of night.

"Thank you for dinner," John told him and slowly let go off Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock really hoped he didn't imagine the reluctance of the gesture. He turned a bit to face John who looked up at him, eyes glittering as they reflected the light of the window. Sherlock thought that really, John didn't look all that plain after all, with that handsome, honest smile and those eyes that had focused solely on Sherlock tonight. No, John was very, very special, even though the first impression one got from John Watson wasn't always supporting that. Sherlock could see that now.

"You're welcome," he replied quietly. "I had a very good evening."

"Me too," John agreed, shuffling a bit.

Suddenly, there was tension in the air, crisp and almost like sparks of electricity. Sherlock took in John's features once more; the crinkled, friendly eyes, the fine, golden hairs that served as his sideburns, the slightly-parted lips as he was exhaling. It simply felt right to bow down a bit, to get a closer look at the loveliness that was John's face. When the man tilted his head in reply, lips ever so slightly brushing over Sherlock's, he couldn't help himself. Sherlock reached out, gently grasping John's hips to pull him a bit closer and deepened the touch of lips, making it a true kiss.

John's lips were warm and soft against his own and when they finally opened fully to let Sherlock in and explore, John tasted a bit of lasagna and wine but also of something tart and exciting and entirely _John_. Their tongues entwined, carefully at first, gently prodding and searching a rhythm that worked for both of them. Then, John became ever so slightly pushy, taking over the kiss and Sherlock's hands tightened around John's hips in appreciation.

The special ring tone suddenly coming from Sherlock's mobile phone ruined the mood. Sherlock swore he could hear John sigh disappointedly against his lips as they parted, the former grasping his mobile phone once more, equal parts of annoyance and excitement shoving aside what had been utter bliss only seconds ago.

"Sorry," Sherlock murmured, actually regretting that the special moment had passed. "I'm sorry."

But it had been Lestrade's ring tone. Lestrade with a case. Urgent, apparently, urgent and _interesting_. Sherlock couldn't let an opportunity like this pass, he really couldn't. As much as he enjoyed what he and John _shared_ , whatever it was that was going on between them that involved so many warm, tingling feelings, Sherlock truly lived for his cases.

"I have to go," he said and John looked up at him, looking unsure and maybe, just maybe a tiny bit scared.

"Oh," was all he said and Sherlock understood that he was fearing that this was it, that it was all over, one pleasant night but nothing else.

How stupid of him! For the first time tonight, Sherlock felt the tiniest bit annoyed with John. Of course, it _wasn't_ over. Hadn't John felt how they had kissed, how they had simply fit together, how they had - for the lack of a better word - _clicked_?

"I'll call," Sherlock assured him and placed the quickest of kisses on John's creased forehead. "I promise."

And with that, he turned, hurrying down the street, already waving for a taxi to take him to a crime scene that promised to be interesting and, for once, a challenge.  



	5. Chapter 5

John was busier than ever.

He had thought it had simply been his lucky day: first the never-ending string of customers, _then_ the date with Sherlock, _then_ the glorious (if interrupted) _kiss_. If John hadn't been so caught-up in all of it, he might have taken a moment to pinch himself in the arm to check whether or not he had been dreaming. A lucky day indeed. A fluke.

As it turned out, though, John's lucky streak still hadn't snapped.

The shop continued to enjoy great popularity and the tills were ringing. Sherlock had texted him exactly five times ever since they had parted two days ago and the joy of actually hearing from him had overridden the slightly disturbing thoughts about how Sherlock had found out about John's mobile phone number in the first place. John's fridge was filled with anything he wanted to eat as he no longer had to worry about paying the bills for the next few months. Long story short: as far as John was concerned, everything was going perfect.

Of course, he should have been suspicious, should have seen it coming. Or at least, he should have known that it couldn't last. Things like this simply didn't happen to John Watson without a particular reason or at least some sort of repercussions.

After the fourth day of good business, John was about to make a quick run to the supermarket before settling in for a comfortable night on his scruffy armchair in front of the TV. He had been craving some popcorn for a long time now and finally didn't have to skimp on small luxuries like that. He was just turning the key in the lock when a sleek, black car came to a stop right next to the edge of the pavement. One of the back doors was opened and a beautiful woman in smart clothing leaned out of the car.

"John Watson," she said, and it wasn't a question.

John nodded anyway, if only to be polite.

"Yes?" he asked.

She made an impatient motion with her head.

"Get in."

John stared at her, grip hardening around his cane. He didn't like that tone of voice at all. It had sounded like an order.

"Why?"

She rolled her eyes in apparent exasperation, lips pursing ever so slightly.

"Because," she stated, "we'll _make_ you if you don't come voluntarily."

John gulped as the woman disappeared back into the car, obviously having no doubts about John's forthcoming decision. He briefly considered making a run for it but no matter what Sherlock might say about his limp, running simply wasn't an option at the moment. Besides, whoever these people were, they already knew where he lived and worked.

With a sigh, John stepped up to the car, free hand quickly patting over his jacket's pocket to check whether or not he had his mobile phone with him. Having a detective who dealt with the police on a regular basis for a, well, _love interest?_ \- or at least, on speed dial might come in very handy when one was being abducted by sleek black cars right in the middle of London.

Ducking his head, John carefully got into the car.  
The drive was quiet, as the woman simply didn't answer any of John's questions properly. Instead, she introduced herself as _Anthea_ , obviously a fake name, and then seemed completely enamoured with the BlackBerry she had fished out of a pocket. Deciding that pressing information from her was useless, John stared through the tinted windows and watched the lights of nightly London pass by.

After what felt like a small eternity, the car finally pulled up at a dimly illuminated building. John followed his abductoress to a side entrance slowly, cane clicking against the concrete.

The building turned out to be a small but fairly modern theatre. The rows were all empty, but a single spot light was set on the stage. In the circle of light stood a man in a chic three-piece suit, carelessly twirling an umbrella with his hand.

"Welcome, Dr. Watson," he said, stopping the twirling to point at John with the tip of his brolly, much like a ringmaster might. "Enter stage left, if you please."

John narrowed his eyes at the man, then squinted into the semi-darkness. Anthea took pity on him and nodded at a barely noticeable door in the wall before sitting down in the first row. With a sigh, John walked over, took the handful of narrow stairs and finally ended up on the smooth wood that was the performance platform.

"Well done," the man mock-praised him, now leaning on his umbrella in a weird symmetry to John's grasping his cane.

The circle of light jittered, then widened a bit to include John as well. They had to make quite an artistic picture for their non-existent audience and the whole display made John's flesh creep. Who was this man? And more importantly-

"What do you want?" he said, trying to stay calm in the face of uncertainty but unable to hide the trace of irritation in his voice.

The man smiled, expressive eyebrows rising up a bit.

"No need to fret, Dr. Watson," he told him in an irritatingly soothing tone, as if he was speaking to a child. "I haven't brought you here to harm you."

"How very reassuring," John replied through clenched teeth.

The man shook his head in what seemed to be slight amusement but then, the small smile all but vanished from his face.

"I understand," he said, voice all business now, "that you have recently made the acquaintance of Sherlock Holmes."

Oh. So _that_ was what this was all about? Some criminal lunatic, checking on Sherlock's interactions with other people? John huffed an angry breath.

"Stalking him, are you?" he retorted, feeling compelled to defend Sherlock in any way he could.

The man made a small, almost irritated sound.

"No," he denied. "I'm merely _checking_ up on him every once in a while."

"Oh, so you're just _concerned_ about his well-being then?" John asked, sarcasm evident in every syllable he spoke.

"Exactly, Dr. Watson. You do have a quick mind, it seems."

When John stayed silent, the man shook his head a bit, then reached into his suit to retrieve a mobile phone. John's eyes widened at the sight of it and the man chuckled, no doubt having anticipated John's reaction.

"Not to worry. This isn't Sherlock Holmes' phone, just an identical copy." Faint beeping noises sounded through the wide emptiness of the theatre as the man pressed a few buttons. "Let's see... 'Woke up feeling like a glutton. Blaming you. SH'."

The fine hairs in John's neck immediately stood to attention. Sherlock's text message. That man had intercepted the first text message Sherlock had sent him. And not only that one, it seemed.

"'Woken up by your text message. Blaming you. We're even, I'd say.' How very sweet."

"What are you trying to prove with this?" John hissed, leaning forward a bit. "Am I supposed to be scared? Of your act of omniscience?"

The man simply ignored his words, eyes still on the mobile phone in his hand.

"'Case is interesting enough, definitely dinner talk material. SH' Mhm, interesting indeed. And here: 'Is that a promise? Would love to hear more about corpses as long as it involves you and delicious food of some kind.' My, my, Dr. Watson, quite the romantic, aren't we?"

John tried to fight the splotches of heat that had appeared on his cheek. This was nobody else's business. This was _private._

"Get to the _point_ ," he said, voice rising.

"Oh, but I am. Patience is a virtue." Slipping the phone back into his pocket, the man eyed him carefully for a few long moments. It only unnerved John further. "I take it you are very keen on continuing this _dating_ with Sherlock Holmes, yes?"

"I don't have to tell you anything," John replied, determined not to give the man any ground to work on.

"You really don't. The answer is obvious, after all." A small, low chuckle. "Now, my good man, pray tell me - how much?"

John blinked.

"How much _what_?" he asked, then quietly scolded himself for showing any interest at all.

"How much _money_ do I have to move to your bank account to make you stop seeing Sherlock Holmes?"

John couldn't help but gape a bit. He wanted him to _stop_? What the hell was this man up to? Misplaced admiration for the detective? Was the man fearing Sherlock would invest less time in his job and thus make the whole criminal business a lot less entertaining? It didn't make sense.

"I'm not taking your money," he replied, glaring at the other man and standing his ground. "Don't bother."

"In a way, you have taken it already," the man informed him and suddenly, his voice was cold and sharp. "Why do you think your shop has been doing so well for the past days? Do you _actually_ believe that was a coincidence? Luck? A _fluke_?"

John's blood ran cold. Oh. _Oh_ , that wasn't good. That wasn't good at all. Everything suddenly fell into place.

"You!" he exclaimed. "You've been sending people."

"Merely redirecting them," was the calculated response. "Running a shop can be such tedious business, wouldn't you agree, Dr. Watson? You never know when the customers will lose interest. And all the paper work! Taxes and dues. Nobody can control it all. It must be quite awful, the constant fear of failing, of going bankrupt."

It was a threat. A blatant and horrifying threat. John had no doubts that this man could destroy his very existence if he chose to. And the only way John could stop him was by submitting to his terms. To break it off with Sherlock before it had really started.

His rationality told him that it wasn't worth it, that Sherlock wasn't special enough to risk the shop, his _mother's_ shop. He hardly knew the man, after all. There was still time to stop, to forget about all of this.

But there was that voice, that little nagging voice that reminded him of the wonderful excitement he had experienced during that dinner, the possibilities that a relationship with the detective would involve. For the first time in ages, John had felt happy and _alive_ just from _listening_ to Sherlock Holmes' stories. He didn't want to lose his chance of becoming part of the sensation that was Sherlock. He really didn't.

"I think I can handle it," John eventually growled. He got the distinct and sickening feeling he had just destroyed his life with those six little words.

There was a flicker of something odd - surprise? satisfaction? _approval?_ \- on the stranger's face but it vanished quickly and left John puzzled. The man shifted, no longer leaning on his umbrella.

"Very well," he accepted the unspoken message. "So be it, then."

With a nod, the man vanished into the darkness of the stage, brolly twirling through the air once more.

Instead, Anthea, still typing away on her BlackBerry, entered the stage from the side and made a waving motion at him.

"I'm to take you home," she stated, seemingly uninterested in what had just taken place.

In that very moment, John's own mobile phone went off. It was a text message:

  
 **`From:`**` Sherlock Holmes  
`

` Why aren't you home yet?`  
`Surely, a bit of shopping can't`  
`take that long?`  
`I'm done with my case and`  
`waiting in front of your shop.`  
`Please hurry.  
` `-SH`

  
John stared at the screen, briefly wondering how Sherlock had known about his initial plans. He took a deep breath, determination growing.

John Watson wasn't defeated yet. He was a soldier and soldiers didn't give up this easily. After all, John wasn't hopelessly outnumbered. He had the world's only consulting detective on his side. They'd work it out together. They'd get this guy, criminal mastermind or not, and John would be able to keep his shop _and_ go out with the amazing Sherlock Holmes (who was also a very good kisser).

"All right," he told Anthea, confidence in his voice. "I'm coming."  



	6. Chapter 6

The minute he saw the black car turn the corner, Sherlock knew why John had taken so unusually long to do something as simple as grocery shopping.

"Mycroft," he growled, whipping out his phone as if it was a gun.

He had hardly switched off the key lock, however, when it started ringing all on his own. Mycroft was calling him. Calling him _right now_.

"How _dare_ you!" Sherlock hissed into the mobile, sharp anger in his voice.

" _Now, now, Sherlock. No need to be rude._ "

"What have you _done_ to him? Didn't _you_ tell me not to mess it up? To avoid scaring him away?"

" _I assure you, Dr. Watson was far from afraid. In fact, he seemed rather confident towards the end of our... conversation._ "

Sherlock laughed a harsh laugh.

" _Conversation?_ Very funny. What have you done? Offered him money to spy? Told him you'd take his sister?" He paused when the most likely scenario suddenly became clear to him. "Oh, you _bastard_!"

" _Language, Sherlock! Mummy would be absolutely-_ "

"I don't care what she has to say about my choice of words! How _dare_ you interfere like this! The shop? _His_ shop? What did you threaten him with, burning it all down? Or some bureaucratic nonsense so he goes bankrupt?"

He didn't wait to listen for an answer because at that very moment, the black car stopped in front of the knitwear shop. The door was opened and John, cane and good leg first, carefully emerged from the automobile. He had hardly gained a foothold on the pavement when Sherlock stepped up to him, placing his free hand on John's shoulder.

"Are you all right?" he asked immediately, searching the other man's face for clues.

He didn't expect Mycroft to have physically hurt John but still - psychological pressure could be even worse than the physical kind on occasions if applied right. And Mycroft knew how to play these games perfectly.

"Yes," John said, looking only slightly shaken and far more determined, if the tightening of his jaw was anything to go by. "Sherlock, listen, I've just been-"

"Abducted, I know."

John raised his eyebrows, confusion evident in his voice as he spoke.

"You _do_? How?"

"My brother," Sherlock replied, not letting go off John's shoulder and raising his mobile to his ear once more.

" _It's refreshing to see you this concerned for another human being._ "

"Shut up. You'll apologize to John _right now_."

" _I don't have the time at the moment, I'm on my way to the airport. Do give him my best regards, though. You've chosen wisely, Sherlock, I whole-heartedly approve of him. So very loyal after just one date. I'm sure we can work out that unfortunate limp of his at some point as well. Good-bye!_ "

If looks could kill, Sherlock's phone would have turned into a melted mess of plastic and microchips. When warm fingers clasped the hand Sherlock was resting on John's shoulder he looked up.

John was looking back at him, enquiring and still confused.

"Your... _brother_?" he asked, clearly uncertain if he had understood correctly.

Sherlock took a deep breath and nodded.

"Yes. I told you he was a pain." Finally putting away his phone, Sherlock moved to clasp both of John's hand, careful of the cane in the man's hand. "I sincerely apologize, John. I should've warned you but Mycroft likes to check on anyone that associates with me. He seems to have the impression I cannot take proper care of myself. Whatever he's been pressuring you with, it's _not_ going to happen."

Sherlock noticed the precise moment were John's genuine relief turned into something akin to anger.

"So it was a sham? A _test_?"

Sherlock nodded, squeezing John's hands.

"I swear I haven't put Mycroft up to this."

He'd have to kill his brother. If he had lost John over this he would. John who was the first person in a very long time, maybe forever, that had truly listened to Sherlock, truly cared. John who was a very good kisser and looked at the same time ridiculously average and wonderful in his knitted jumpers. John who was full of beautiful contradictions like that.

"Oh, I know," John said and finally, _finally_ squeezed back, a faint smile on his lips when he looked Sherlock in the eye. "He told me- he told me he'd ruin my shop."

"I know", Sherlock replied, "Don't worry, he's not going to do it. Just a test, remember?"

"A test," John said again and suddenly, a laugh bubbled up from somewhere in his chest. It sounded strange, a mix of relief and hysteria. "I- I told him I'd risk it. Risk the shop. For it all."

"It all?"

"For this. You and me. He wanted me to stop seeing you and I- I refused."

It was still light enough outside that Sherlock could watch John's cheeks redden in a delicate blush as he averted his eyes, clearly embarrassed by the admission. Sherlock wouldn't have any of it. Suddenly, he was feeling high, blood rushing through his body, making his finger tips tingle. Leaning forward, Sherlock caught John's lips with his own, thoroughly kissing him. John responded quickly, shifting and pressing up against Sherlock, tongue teasing and prodding.

When the finally parted, panting lightly and now, both blushing, Mycroft's car was long gone and the street lamps had switched on.

"Well," John said and awkwardly cleared his throat. "Do you... I mean, would you like to come in? A cup of tea, maybe?"

Sherlock nodded, smiling widely. He didn't remember whether he had ever smiled like this before. Sherlock didn't think there had ever been a reason to.

"Sure. That'd be lovely," he replied.

Inside, they huddled around the tiny, lopsided kitchen table, mismatching mugs in their hands, looking at each other over the steam.

"So," John said. "Is it always like this with you? Kidnappings and the likes?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Sometimes. Chases, as well, and the occasional shooting."

John grinned.

"Sounds exciting."

Sherlock smirked back, knowing when an opportunity presented itself to him. John had secretly _liked_ the excitement, had liked the pressure, the stress. He still loved, still ached for the rush he had been missing ever since leaving Afghanistan.

"Do you want to join me for my next case, maybe? I'm sure Mycroft could find someone to look after your shop while you're gone. It can be his compensation for the inconvenience he's caused. A nice little murder? Sounds good?"

John didn't even think about it.

"Brilliant," he replied.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cracky epilogue is cracky.

"Sherlock? For God's sakes, what are you _wearing_?"

"It's called a _jumper_ , Lestrade. Honestly, here I was thinking you had finally mastered elementary school vocabulary."

"I can _see_ that it is a jumper. But there are- there are magnifiers on it. Tiny, blue magnifiers."

"Yes, I _know_. It's called a _pattern_."

"Why- why are you wearing a jumper with a magnifier pattern, Sherlock?"

"John picked it out for me. He likes it. And it _does_ suit me, doesn't it?"

"..."

"Are you _jealous_ , Lestrade? I'm sure John could find something with motorbikes-"

" _No!_ No, that's fine. I'm- I'm all set with the- the jumpers."

"Too bad. John loves picking clothes for people. Now, if you're quite finished, make yourself useful and hand me that photofit picture, will you?"  
_____  
 _fin._


End file.
